Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

“You don’t know what it’s like! You—neither of you—you’ve never had to face him, have you? You think it’s just memorizing a bunch of spells and throwing them at him, like you’re in class or something? The whole time you’re sure you know there’s nothing between you and dying except your own—your own brain or guts or whatever—like you can think straight when you know you’re about a nanosecond from being murdered, or tortured, or watching your friends die—they’ve never taught us that in their classes, what it’s like to deal with things like that—and you two sit there acting like I’m a clever little boy to be standing here, alive, like Diggory was stupid, like he messed up—you just don’t get it, that could just as easily have been me, it would have been if Voldemort hadn’t needed me—”

“We weren’t saying anything like that, mate,” said Ron, looking aghast. “We weren’t having a go at Diggory, we didn’t—you’ve got the wrong end of the—”

He looked helplessly at Hermione, whose face was stricken.

“Harry,” she said timidly, “don’t you see? This… this is exactly why we need you… we need to know what it’s r-really like… facing him… facing V-Voldemort.”

It was the first time she had ever said Voldemort’s name and it was this, more than anything else, that calmed Harry. Still breathing hard, he sank back into his chair, becoming aware as he did so that his hand was throbbing horribly again. He wished he had not smashed the bowl of Murtlap essence.

“Well… think about it,” said Hermione quietly. “Please?”

Harry could not think of anything to say. He was feeling ashamed of his outburst already. He nodded, hardly aware of what he was agreeing to.

Hermione stood up.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” she said, in a voice that was clearly as natural as she could make it. “Erm… night.”

Ron had got to his feet, too.

“Coming?” he said awkwardly to Harry.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “In… in a minute. I’ll just clear this up.”

He indicated the smashed bowl on the floor. Ron nodded and left.

“Reparo,” Harry muttered, pointing his wand at the broken pieces of china. They flew back together, good as new, but there was no returning the Murtlap essence to the bowl.

He was suddenly so tired he was tempted to sink back into his armchair and sleep there, but instead he forced himself to his feet and followed Ron upstairs. His restless night was punctuated once more by dreams of long corridors and locked doors and he awoke next day with his scar prickling again.

16. IN THE HOG’S HEAD

Hermione made no mention of Harry giving Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons for two whole weeks after her original suggestion. Harry’s detentions with Umbridge were finally over (he doubted whether the words now etched into the back of his hand would ever fade entirely); Ron had had four more Quidditch practices and not been shouted at during the last two; and all three of them had managed to Vanish their mice in Transfiguration (Hermione had actually progressed to Vanishing kittens), before the subject was broached again, on a wild, blustery evening at the end of September, when the three of them were sitting in the library, looking up potion ingredients for Snape.

“I was wondering,” Hermione said suddenly, “whether you’d thought any more about Defence Against the Dark Arts, Harry.”

“Course I have,” said Harry grumpily, “can’t forget it, can we, with that hag teaching us—”

“I meant the idea Ron and I had—” Ron cast her an alarmed, threatening kind of look. She frowned at him, “—Oh, all right, the idea I had, then—about you teaching us.”

Harry did not answer at once. He pretended to be perusing a page of Asiatic Anti-Venoms, because he did not want to say what was in his mind.

He had given the matter a great deal of thought over the past fortnight. Sometimes it seemed an insane idea, just as it had on the night Hermione had proposed it, but at others, he had found himself thinking about the spells that had served him best in his various encounters with Dark creatures and Death Eaters—found himself, in fact, subconsciously planning lessons…

“Well,” he said slowly, when he could no longer pretend to find Asiatic Anti-Venoms interesting, “yeah, I—I’ve thought about it a bit.”

“And?” said Hermione eagerly.

“I dunno,” said Harry, playing for time. He looked up at Ron.

“I thought it was a good idea from the start,” said Ron, who seemed keener to join in this conversation now that he was sure Harry was not going to start shouting again.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“You did listen to what I said about a load of it being luck, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Harry,” said Hermione gently, “but all the same, there’s no point pretending that you’re not good at Defence Against the Dark Arts, because you are. You were the only person last year who could throw off the Imperius Curse completely, you can produce a Patronus, you can do all sorts of stuff that full-grown wizards can’t, Viktor always said—”